


Nightmare

by Fumm95



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Nightmares, Other, Post Chariot book, Post-Break Up, gender ambiguous apprentice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12703626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95
Summary: Julian may have left the apprentice, but that doesn't mean he leaves the nightmares behind.





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> What do you mean I need to stop hopping fandoms? That's ridiculous.
> 
> But honestly what am I doing here Julian's route isn't even my favorite. Ahhhhh the siren call of angst is so tempting...
> 
> Nameless, gender ambiguous Apprentice for everyone's angsty imagining goodness. Also some theorizing about Mazelinka because we know approximately jack shit about her.

In the past years, Mazelinka has seen many things and has spent more time than she cares to think about watching over Ilya. In a way, she supposes she has basically stepped in as the closest thing he has to family in Vesuvia, Pasha notwithstanding. After all, she’s one of the few who knows exactly who he is and what has been done to him and how much he’s suffered as a result.

Or, at least, she knows enough that should the magician Asra ever show up at her doorstep, she’s fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind and a good deal more than he would ever ask for.

At any rate, her home has always been a place of refuge for Ilya, a small haven in which he can be sure to be safe from any unwanted intrusions and simply rest with someone caring for him. It’s not a resource he takes advantage of often enough, given his tumultuous circumstances and much to her concern.

Which only makes tonight all the more unusual.

She knows the instant she returns home that she’s not alone; setting up wards against strangers for her house is a basic precaution and though Ilya might not trip them himself, they’re strong enough that she knows whenever someone she trusts enters, and there are few enough people who are included in that list that it’s not hard to guess. As such, she glances towards the windowsill, fully expecting to find her dragon’s breath to be shifting in protest, but this time, they’re still, peaceful.

For what is probably the first time in his life, he didn’t enter through the window.

It’s a fact she should probably be thankful for, but in reality, it only makes her more worried, as does the fact that he doesn’t instantly appear before her, all gangly height and dramatic flair, protesting the size of her home, as he always does.

“Ilya?”

There’s no reply.

Concerned now, she stomps her way to the curtain, perhaps louder than she normally is, but before she can reach it, a low moan sounds from the other side, nearly inaudible given the noise she’s making. For a moment, she freezes, wondering whether she’s imagining things, whether she should respect his privacy, but a hoarse, nearly sobbed “please,” desperate and pleading, makes up her mind for her and she’s drawing back the curtain before she’s even aware of it herself.

He has never been able to fit on her twin bed well, long limbs typically sticking out in angles she can’t imagine would be comfortable sleeping in, though he has hardly ever seemed to mind. Even so, she has never seen him like this, curled in on himself so tightly that she can’t tell how the sheets have managed to tangle around him, fully clothed as he is.

His shoulder trembles under her fingers as she reaches for him, shaking him awake. “Ilya!”

Flailing, he jerks upright, so quickly that he nearly bumps into her. Frantic, terrified eyes dart around the room before settling on her face as recognition sinks into his gaze and he leans back against the headboard in a facsimile of normalcy that is belied by his heavy breathing. “Mazelinka! When did you get back? My apologies for barging in like this. I had no intention of falling asleep before you returned but I appeared to be more tired than I thought from the healing yesterday.”

The rambling words trip over each other and wash over her as she reaches out, unwrapping sweat-soaked sheets from his form. “Are you all right?”

“Fine! I’m just fine.” He waves a hand airily, nearly knocking a candle off of the bedside table with the strength of his forced nonchalance. “Other than my usual clumsiness, I suppose,” he adds with a rather failed attempt at a lighthearted tone, given the slight quiver to his voice.

“I heard your cries. It sounds like you were having a nightmare.”

“Ah… yes. I was.” He closes his eyes for a moment, but she’s not so old as to miss the flash of pain deep in his gaze, and the grin he forces to his face resembles more of a grimace. “It was simply a nightmare, though. Nothing to worry about. Everyone gets them…”

For several moments, she only purses her lips, watching him trail off, squirming, under her steady stare. She’s close enough to see his red-rimmed eyes, the beads of sweat on his forehead and lines of despair hidden in the corners of his mouth. The glimpses of the scared, lost, hurting man he is under the theatrical attitude and debonair, almost cocky, persona.

“I know you better than that,” she says simply.

Something inscrutable crosses his face, then, and for a moment, she wonders whether she has finally gotten through to him, before another smile curves his lips, at once deflecting and yet still full of bitter amusement. “I suppose that means you know me better than I know myself. You’d be the first, then.”

“Ilya…” She sits on the bed beside him, noting the way he shifts to make room and, in the same movement, curls in on himself, arms wrapping around his knees in an oddly childlike posture that, somehow, makes her heart ache for him.

“I guess that’s my fault for visiting so often, isn’t it?” His voice makes an attempt at jauntiness, but the grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes and, when she doesn’t respond, he says no more, dropping his gaze to his lap, fingers rubbing almost absentmindedly at the murderer’s brand on the back of his left hand.

For several moments, she sits in silence, watching the rise and fall of his chest as she calculates the wisdom of her words, before shaking her head. “Ilya,” she says at last, the words coming out more as a sigh than anything else and as gentle as she can make them, “where is your friend?”

Any semblance of mirth vanishes from his expression in an instant, leaving only eyes widening with silent heartbreak in its wake, thin shoulders slumping as his head falls into his hands, but it’s all the answer she needs. She knows him well enough to know his habits and thoughts. To know what must have happened.

She also knows him well enough to know that words, hers or anyone else’s, save maybe _theirs_ , if he can ever face them again, won’t do anything to help him. Not now. Not for this.

Instead, she gets to her feet and heads back towards the kitchen, pausing only to rest a gentle hand on his shoulder. Under her fingers, he stiffens, but doesn’t pull away, and she takes that as a victory, as small as it is, before shuffling away. “Soup or tea?” she calls over her shoulder.

He doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t need to, given the circumstances. She simply busies herself with the preparations, though the memories of just a day earlier, of company and warmth and Ilya less troubled than she has seen in too long, in spite of everything, tease at her subconscious as she works. For a second, she thinks she can hear muffled noises coming from the other side, but when she pauses, silence reigns and she only shakes her head, continuing to watch the pot.

By the time she returns with a bowl of soup, the other room is already dark. He lies towards the wall, face hidden from view, and though his rapid breaths show him to be far from asleep, he doesn’t respond to her quiet call of his name. Instead, she puts the bowl on the bedside table. “Drink before it gets cold,” she says quietly.

She can only pretend she doesn’t hear his stifled crying as she settles in for the long night.


End file.
